


Living for the Right Now

by Lissadiane



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Kidfic, Kidnapping, M/M, Stiles steals a kid, Torture, not a goat this time, soft derek, wererabbit stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 05:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15527421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/pseuds/Lissadiane
Summary: An unfortunate incident at a petting zoo leaves Stiles unable to keep his child safe from the hunters that have been looking for them for months. Desperate, he returns to the one place he swore never to step foot in again -- Beacon Hills. But just because Derek has managed to turn himself into a decent Alpha while he's been gone doesn't mean Stiles is willing to forgive him for everything that happened six years before.Besides. Wererabbits, as far as he can tell, don't need Alphas anyway.





	Living for the Right Now

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated, as usual, to [pantstomatch](https://pantstomatch.tumblr.com/) who requested a story about werebunnies. I don't think this is the story she had in mind. I haven't written anything in so long, it felt like my soul was dying. Thank you for your patience with all my unfinished stories, for cheerleading whatever I managed to work on without getting too hung up on the dozens of Sterek fics that I abandoned on the way, and for writing my favourite things to read.
> 
> Warning for some torture and canon-typical violence. None of the children get tortured, don't worry.

“You smell like prey.”

Stiles heart skips a beat or two, instant adrenaline making it hard to breathe, but he does his best not to show it. It’s useless, he knows – even if he manages to keep his body relaxed, his ears blunt, and his teeth human, Derek Hale has always had a particular interest in whatever Stiles’ heart is doing.

He turns slowly, forcing a deep, calming breath, and bares his teeth.

“And you still sound like an asshole,” he says sweetly.

But fuck. He still looks beautiful.

Not that Stiles notices. He’s far too busy staying serene and calm and not rabbitting out to appreciate Derek’s stupid face. Or his shoulders. Or his mouth. Or the ridiculously soft beard he appears to be sporting these days. 

It’s been six years since Stiles last saw him, and those six years have been good to Derek. The crinkles around his eyes soften his face and his mouth seems softer too, less inclined to scowl. He almost looks like a smile wouldn’t be completely new to his face.

But the past six years for Stiles haven’t been nearly as forgiving.

Derek’s eyes are narrowed, fixed on Stiles’ face, and he looks like he’s trying to work out a puzzle. It probably won’t take him long to figure it out.

Stiles has been back in Beacon Hills for all of four hours. He’s surprised it’s taken Derek this long to figure it out.

But before Derek can quite figure out why Stiles smells so different, a small, solemn voice behind him says, “Wolf.”

And then the little shit starts to howl.

“ _Shit_.” Stiles spins back around to the shopping cart, scoops the toddler up, presses his little face into his shoulder, and says, “Shh, Trip, shh. I told you, no _howling_. Jesus.”

Trip obediently goes silent. He looks at Stiles, solemn and reproachful, before turning his gaze to Derek, who is still standing there behind Stiles.

He’d completely forgotten about Derek.

Flustered, Stiles turns back around, and fuck, shit, son of a bitch, he’s so off balance by running into Derek, by Trip’s ill-timed howling, by having to be back in this fucking town, he can _feel_ his goddamned ears stretching into points, and now is not the fucking time.

“Stiles?” Derek asks, concerned, looking from Stiles to the kid and back again. “Is that – are you –”

And then it doesn’t even matter anymore, because Trip’s right. Derek does smell of wolf. And it’s too much, too scary, too predator for Stiles’ animal nature to handle. Not with all the stress of the entire day, not with all the stress of Trip and his dad and Beacon Hills and fleeing his safe Wisconsin home in the middle of the night and now this?

He’s already got a fragile hold on his control, and it breaks with a bone crushing snap as Stiles’ body gives in to the _big scary wolf new place new smells too scary run away run away_ terror.

He’s just got half a second to shove Trip into Derek’s arms before there’s a rush of pain and disorientation and then the human part of Stiles’ mind is drown out beneath his fight or flight prey instincts and Stiles is gone, a pile of empty clothes in the middle of the supermarket cereal aisle.

And in his place is a tiny, fluffy, lop-eared wererabbit. 

*

When Stiles finally has his opposable thumbs (and his human consciousness) back, he’s naked and dirty and curled up in the covered bed of a truck that smells like old Doritos and socks.

His body aches the way it always does, and he can still taste rabbit terror in the back of his throat.

He bumps his head on the truck cover when he sits up and yelps a little, rubbing at his forehead and trying not to panic. The last thing he needs is to scare himself back into a fucking bunny.

Before he can figure out where he is or why, the cover begins to retract and he flinches at the bright sunlight, shading his eyes. 

Derek is there, looking stony and unapproachable and still somehow soft. He tosses Stiles a blanket and says, “You’re back.”

“Where am I?” Stiles asks, disoriented, as he wraps the blanket around himself like a toga and climbs out of the truck. Derek offers a hand but Stiles ignores him. “Where’s –”

He sees Trip before he can finish asking. The little boy is splashing in a wading pool with a whole gang of other kids, ranging in age from toddlers, like Trip, to elementary school kids. There’s a sullen preteen supervising from nearby.

Stiles wants to be indignant and furious at Derek’s high handedness. Trip doesn’t need this – he’s not part of this Pack. And Derek isn’t his damned Alpha!

But Trip standing there shyly and actually kicks out at the water a little, a small, weak splash. It’s the most Stiles has ever seen him engage with anybody in the past six months.

Besides. What was Derek supposed to do? Stiles was a rabbit.

“Your groceries are inside,” Derek says, crossing his arms over his chest, carefully watching the children play.

Stiles closes his eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t pick me up.”

“You were making a break for the stock room,” Derek says evenly. “The kid started to cry.”

Stiles lets out a careful breath and decides to compartmentalize. He’ll file this humiliation away forever and never think of this again. 

“Okay,” he says. “We have to go. I’ll just grab our stuff – I’ll totally pay you back – and call my dad and –”

He starts walking towards Trip, intending to scoop him up and make a break for it, but Derek grabs him by the wrist.

Stiles freezes, breathes, closes his eyes, and doesn’t bolt for the hedgerow. It’s a near thing.

He grits his teeth. “Don’t – don’t do that. It makes me…” He trails off, and Derek takes his hand away, still hovering.

“What the fuck happened?” Derek asks.

And Stiles laughs. “I don’t think you have a right to ask that,” he says, backing away and shaking his head. He’s having trouble turning his back on Derek now, because Derek is a threat and Stiles lost the ability to willfully ignore threats around about the time he got turned. “I’m going to get my kid. And my groceries. And my clothes, god willing. And then I’m going to go.”

“Your kid?” Derek echoes, watching him carefully.

Stiles gestures to Trip. “That one.”

“I wasn’t sure – he doesn’t look like you.”

“Genetics are amazing that way,” Stiles says, though, to be fair, Trip isn’t actually Stiles’. Officially. Legally. Biologically. Whatever.

“Stiles.” Derek is beginning to sound exasperated now. “You can’t just show up here and expect—”

And yeah, maybe he’s a goddamned werebunny now, but Stiles still has a temper. “I didn’t show up here today expecting anything from you,” he snaps. “I was buying some fucking cereal that isn’t 90 per cent sugar, probably picking up some Goodnites for Trip because with all the anxiety over fleeing across the damned country, he’s struggling a bit with his potty training, and my only expectation for this entire shit show of a situation is that I could maybe spend a few weeks with my dad, trying to come up with a plan. So no, Derek, whatever you think I showed up expecting, you’re wrong.”

The children are quiet now, all of them watching warily, and Derek is quiet for a moment too, running a hand through his hair and studying Stiles. Finally, he says, “Fleeing across the country?”

Stiles laughs, borderline hysterical. “A road trip. Relax. It’s nothing.”

“Who are you running from, Stiles?”

“Right now?” He stomps over to Trip, who has started sucking his thumb again, despite having grown out of it months ago. “Just you.”

“Stiles.”

He ignores him, skirting around the sullen wolf by the back door, ignoring Trip’s soft, sad howl as they go. He finds his clothes in a careful pile beside all the children’s cast off shirts and he gets dressed quickly with shaking hands.

He abandons his groceries. He doesn’t need cereal anyway.

*

His bedroom is just as it was when he left Beacon Hills at 18, broken hearted and desperate to find somewhere to belong. Posters he’d carefully collected were still pinned on the wall, the board where he’d compiled all the information about whatever supernatural shenanigan they’d been investigating was still there, red strings marking things that no longer mattered. His bed was still far too narrow for an adult’s body, and sharing it with a squirmy toddler werewolf didn’t help.

But it was nice to be home. Despite all the shit with Derek and everything he was running from, being home was familiar in a way that soothed the frightened rabbit that had taken up residence inside of him. He supposes it’s like being safe in a warren with a little bunny family – if he had a bunny family. But he doesn’t. He has a human family. And, with Trip, a werewolf family.

Stiles spends the day cooking anything he can find in his dad’s cupboards. It helps shake off the anxiety of having run into Derek, it keeps his hands busy, and he finds himself wondering if rabbits did much nesting.

Either way, he is going to ensure his dad has a stock of frozen food in his freezer ready and waiting for when Stiles has to leave again.

Trip is watching him from the floor where he sits surrounded by toys he’s never bothered to play with. Stiles keeps up a running dialogue with him, pausing in places where Trip might be inclined to reply, and doesn’t let the child’s continued silence get to him.

“If there was ever someone qualified to deal with baby werewolf PTSD,” Stiles says as he shoves a shepherd’s pie into the oven, “I don’t think it’s me.”

He wonders if maybe Melissa might know what to do and then takes a deep breath. Maybe he’ll ask, if he gets desperate enough.

He hears his dad long before the cruiser pulls up in the drive, because being a rabbit comes with some enhanced senses, though strength isn’t one of them. Speed, though. He can run for hours in a blind panic.

“You’re stress cooking,” he dad says when he gets to the doorway.

“Saw Derek Hale today,” Stiles grunts, dropping rice into boiling water.

“Ah. And how is he?”

“Still a dick.”

The sheriff drops down into a crouch near Trip who watches him with wide eyes, sucking his thumb. 

“Hey there, sweetheart,” John says, and Trip doesn’t make a sound, not until he picks up a small plastic duck and holds it up.

“Duck,” Trip whispers, thumb popping out of his mouth. And then he quacks.

Stiles closes his eyes. “Dad,” he says, licking his lips.

John looks up from where he’d been searching through the pile of blocks and cars, looking for another animal. “Yes?”

“You know how I told you that something had come up and I was coming to stay for a while but not to worry because everything is fine?”

“I recall something like that,” John says with a nod. He triumphantly holds up a plastic dolphin and Trip obligingly starts to squeal. “And then you showed up with this little guy and said he was yours.”

John sounds just as skeptical now as he did when Stiles had lied to him.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, bracing himself on the counter. “Listen. That wasn’t all strictly true.”

“I figured.”

Stiles laughs a little shakily. “Trip really likes animals,” he says, because it’s true. The kid is obsessed. Animal noises and names are the only thing he’s willing to communicate these days. It was the only way Stiles had found to connect with him in the six months since they’d together. “So I took him to a petting zoo.”

“Okay,” his dad says, still not sounding all that concerned.

“And I got bit, Dad.” His voice cracks a little.

There’s a pause, and when Stiles peeks over at his dad, John is finally paying more attention to him than the pile of toys. “By what?”

“A rabbit.” He snickers a little, disbelieving. “I got bit by a rabbit. A fucking rabbit, Dad. Trip sat down on the little chair and I picked up a fucking rabbit for him to pet, and the goddamned thing bit me.”

“Did you… get a rabies shot?”

“I don’t blame it, really. I mean. Rabbits don’t react well to… to…” He winces. “Werewolves.”

“Werewolves,” John echoes, skeptical. “You brought a werewolf to a petting zoo.”

He nods wildly. “Yes. Because. Because it’s the only thing, Dad. It’s the only way I can get him to talk, to communicate. I thought maybe… like, they have therapy dogs, right? Maybe therapy petting zoos should be a thing, maybe—”

It took a moment or two, but John’s eyes widened. “The kid’s a _wolf_?”

“And it was a wererabbit!” Stiles blurts, and John stares at him.

“Wererabbit,” he repeats, faint. “When the fuck did wererabbits become a thing? And how did a wererabbit get a baby werewolf?”

“To be fair,” Stiles says, voice growing higher with panic. “I stole the baby werewolf before I was a wererabbit.”

He laughs; the sheriff doesn’t.

Stiles finally closes his eyes and confesses, “Dad, I’m in so much trouble.”

*

It’s an exhausting night. Stiles cries a lot, which is embarrassing, but he feels like he’s needed a good cry for a while now. Trip falls asleep on the couch, curled around Stiles’ old stuffed monkey that’s barely clinging to life, and after he confesses everything to his father, Stiles tucks a blanket around Trip carefully and drags himself up to bed.

When he wakes up in the morning, his father is gone. And so is Trip.

He dad’s at work. But Trip isn’t in the house at all. Stiles checks everywhere, calling his name, growing more and more panicked. He searches every room, the back yard, the front yard, the garage, but finds no sign of him.

He’s about to call his dad and beg him to come home and help him search, fearing the worst, when a strange car pulls up in the driveway.

Stiles goes tense all over, ready to bolt to the nearest warren-like hideaway. It’s only his fear for Trip that keeps him still.

“Stiles! I know you’re in there, you smell like rabbit. I could just eat you up.”

He opens the door, Erica smirking at him from the porch. 

“I don’t have time for you,” Stiles tells her. “I’ve got—”

“A lost kid, I know. Derek sent me to get you. Your kid’s at his place.” She shrugs, snaps her gum, and turns to walk away. “Come on.”

“At his – why – he couldn’t have _called_? What’s Trip doing – is he okay?”

“None of us have your number, Stiles.” She rolls her eyes. “Remember how you ditched your phone like, hours after leaving Beacon Hills without a word?”

“Just tell me he’s okay,” Stiles begs, climbing into the passenger seat. The scent of predator in her vehicle is overwhelming and he starts to shake.

“He’s fine,” she says, starting the ignition. “Derek went out for his morning run, came back, and found the kid sitting on the back step.”

Derek lives out in the Preserve, a few miles from town. The thought of Trip somehow making that journey alone made Stiles want to burrow somewhere dark and hide.

“But why?” he asks, voice small.

She looks at him as she takes the turn that heads into the Preserve. “Probably misses Pack,” she says casually, like it doesn’t make his stomach twist up.

“God, Stiles, you smell miserable. And like rabbit. Cut that shit out.”

He curls up smaller and tries his best to control his rising panic.

*

Trip is fine. He’s sleeping, snuggled up along Derek’s side, head resting on his shoulder, Derek’s arm carefully draped around him. He isn’t sucking his thumb, and Stiles’ old monkey is clutched in one hand. They’re sitting together on an old porch swing, which is moving a little, just enough to make the breeze ruffle Trip’s fine blonde hair.

As soon as Stiles sees him there, safe and sound and trustingly sleeping on someone he shouldn’t trust at all, Stiles wants to cry. It’s part relief that Trip is okay, and part reaction to the betrayal of having Derek take something else he wasn’t meant to take.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks him. His voice wobbles.

“Stiles.” Derek looks concerned, and he flashes a quick look at Erica, who rolls her eyes and disappears inside. “He’s fine, everything’s fine. He was a little dirty from the woods, but other than that –”

“I don’t understand why he’s here,” Stiles interrupts. “Why would he – he’s never left me before. He’s -- I thought –”

Trip stirs a little, frowning, probably disturbed by how upset Stiles is getting, and Derek hums soothingly, stroking a hand down his back. It’s not right – the Derek Stiles knows isn’t gentle, isn’t soft. Isn’t sweet.

“He’s a wolf, Stiles,” Derek tells him, not unkindly. “A young one. It’s instinct for Omegas…”

“He’s not an Omega!” 

Trip whimpers in his sleep and Stiles turns away, feeling helpless and stupid and covering his face, trying to breathe.

“He’s Pack,” he says. “My Pack.”

Trip wakes with a small, sniffly cry, looking around for a moment before his sleepy gaze latches on to Stiles, who is trying so hard to smile and look like he’s not upset.

It doesn’t matter; Trip scrambles off the swing and comes over to Stiles, arms lifted to be picked up, and after Stiles scoops him, he puts both hands on Stiles’ cheeks, ratty monkey paw still clutched in one, and says solemnly, “Wolf.” And then he howls.

Stiles can’t help a teary little laugh, closing his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, forehead against Trip’s. “I know.”

“He’s probably hungry,” Derek says, all casual, and Stiles shoots him a suspicious glare. “I was going to make pancakes if you want to stay.”

“No,” Stiles says, still clutching Trip.

“Erica’s gone to get your car from the market,” Derek tells him. “She’ll be back in half an hour. Stay for pancakes. I won’t bite.”

Trip probably _is_ hungry. And Derek always did make amazing pancakes.

Stiles feels like he’s giving into the inevitable when he follows Derek inside.

There are three high chairs clustered around the table in a surprisingly homey kitchen. Gone are the days when Derek lived in an industrial loft with exposed brick. 

The whole place, of course, reeks of predator, but Stiles breathes through it, staying quiet as Derek starts pulling out bowls and ingredients.

Trip is fascinated by the process. Stiles wonders if he even remembers seeing anyone cook before, other than his own anxiety-driven cooking spree the day before, and he gives in and brings Trip closer, so he can watch the cracking of eggs.

Derek holds out a spoon and lets him stir, laughing when flour puffs out of the bowl and coats his hair and face.

“Chocolate chips?” Derek asks, pulling them out and not seeming phased when Trip doesn’t answer. He just sprinkles some in and turns on the skillet.

Trip seems calmer, less anxious here, and Stiles wonders if maybe it is some Omega instinct that has them looking for approval from an Alpha, which Derek doesn’t seem to mind giving to Trip, keeping up a casual, one-sided conversation on the merits of chocolate chips vs. blueberries. It’s more talking than Stiles has ever heard from him.

“Where are your kids?” he asks finally, when Derek seems to be winding up, and Trip is watching him and blinking sleepily, head on Stiles’ shoulder.

“My kids?”

“The horde from yesterday?”

Derek smiles a little. “Oh, yeah. No, not mine. Those were Erica and Boyd’s, and Scott’s.”

“Scott? Scott has…” Stiles trails off, eyes wide.

“His twins?” Derek says. “Two boys? He and Kira… how do you not know that Scott’s got twins? He talks about it to anyone who’ll listen.”

Stiles turns away, rocking Trip and pretending everything’s fine. “Haven’t talked to Scott much lately.”

Derek is quiet, flipping a pancake, and finally asking, “Since when?”

Shrugging, Stiles sets Trip down in a booster seat, buckling him in carefully. “A while,” he says.

“Stiles.”

Stiles opens the cupboard and finds a startling amount of sippy cups with Paw Patrol characters on them. He grabs one and goes to the fridge and says finally, “Since you kicked me out six years ago.”

Derek is quiet, like now, finally, he doesn’t want to talk anymore. Stiles pours Trip some juice, gives it to him, and carefully cuts up the pancake Derek had been cooling in the fridge. He puts a bit of syrup on it and watches as Trip starts poking at it.

Finally, Derek says, “Will you tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“Stiles.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“If you’re running from someone and they follow you here, it’ll be my business.”

Stiles shakes his head. “We won’t be here long enough for it to become your business, don’t worry.”

“Are you going back to his Pack?” Derek asks.

“I am all the Pack he needs,” Stiles hisses.

Trip says, “Snake.” And hisses. And smiles.

Stiles hasn’t seen him smile in months.

He closes his eyes and breathes because Trip has been more awake and engaged in the past day since running into Derek than he has been in the six months since everything went to hell. And maybe Stiles can kid himself into thinking that it’s time, that Trip is finally healing and becoming a normal kid, but he’s never been all that into self-delusion.

But the idea that maybe Derek is right and Trip needs more than Stiles can give is too much, too scary.

“He doesn’t need you,” Stiles says, voice reedy, because he’s panicking and he doesn’t think he can manage to control it this time. “He _doesn’t_.”

“He needs an Alpha,” Derek says, logical. His eyebrows are furrowed. “Are you okay? Breathe, Stiles, it’s okay. I’m not going to _take_ him from you.”

Stiles has had two months of rabbit-related situations at this point and he’s learned to recognize when breathing and compartmentalization are not going to be enough to slow the tide of terror.

“I needed you,” he pants, scrambling backwards away from Derek. “And look where that got me.”

“Stiles –”

“Keep him safe,” he begs, wild eyed. “Promise me.”

And then there’s a rush of pain, the world tips and changes around him, and he shrinks, tangled up in his clothes.

A fucking rabbit.

And he panics and runs.

*

He smashes his head on the truck bed cover again when he’s back to being human.

When Derek opens it, he says, “Why do you keep putting me in this fucking truck?”

Derek shrugs. “It’s Danny’s,” he says. “Classic truck he picked up for cheap at an auction. He leaves it here and works on it on the weekends, trying to get the engine working. I figured it’s the least… wolf-scented safe place for you.”

Stiles flops back down onto the truck bed, arm thrown over his eyes. He feels hungover, body aching. “Oh,” he says. “Trip?”

“Playing with Emerson and Riley in the pool.”

“Emerson and Riley…”

“Scott’s.”

Stiles sits up fast, wincing as his head throbs. “Scott’s here?”

“Not anymore. I watch his kids while he and Kira are at work. He, uh. Caught your scent. But I didn’t let him stay.”

“Worried he’d eat me?” Stiles asks, rolling his eyes.

“Nah. If anyone would have, it would’ve been Erica,” Derek says, smiling a little. “I think you’re safe.”

“Safe,” Stiles scoffs, because he can’t remember what that feels like.

And then he hears a squeal and a high pitched giggle and glances over, eyes going wide, because it’s Trip. He’s rolling in the little pool, splashing and laughing and wrestling with two boys his own age. Even as he watches, one of the boys growls and flashes golden eyes, but Trip doesn’t freeze up or space out. He just giggles and bares his blunt teeth.

Stiles presses both hands to his eyes hard, trying not to cry. “Fuck,” he says. “You can’t do this. You can’t have him. You can’t take everything, Derek.”

Derek reaches for him and Stiles scrambles out of the truck, shaking the pins and needles out of his legs.

“I’m not taking him,” Derek says soothingly, but Stiles shakes his head.

“He hasn’t laughed since his Pack…” He trails off.

“Where are they?”

Stiles gives up. His shoulders slump and his chest aches and he just watches Trip playing, almost like a normal child, and says, “Dead. They’re all dead.”

He has a flash memory of blood, screaming, the scent of wolfsbane and gun powder, howling and crying, and he shudders, forcing it away.

“When?”

“Six months ago. I need a drink.”

It’s late morning, but Derek gets him a beer anyway, and a blanket when Stiles keeps shivering, despite the warm summer day.

“Let me help,” Derek says, and the blanket is warm and soft like Derek is these days, and it’s too much for Stiles.

“You can’t. They’re already dead, and now I’m all he has. And I’m fine. I’m—it’s fine. We’re fine.”

“He’s not fine,” Derek argues, sitting on the back step next to Stiles. “And neither are you.”

“Well,” Stiles allows, sipping his beer. “Two months ago, I did get bitten by an asshole wererabbit living at a fucking petting zoo because he was too goddamn lazy and cheap to get a job to pay rent and buy his own food. So. I am struggling with that, a little.”

“You’re cute,” Derek says, and then his cheeks flush and he scowls, like he didn’t mean to say it. “As a rabbit.”

Stiles stares at him. “Dude. You eat rabbits for breakfast, don’t pretend.”

“Too bony,” Derek tells him, and Stiles doesn’t even know if he’s lying. “So if his Pack is gone, what are you running from?”

“Nothing,” Stiles lies. “I just… parenting is hard when I turn into a rabbit when I get scared. I just… needed my dad’s help. But now I’m good. Don’t even worry about it.” He flashes a smile he doesn’t mean. “Thanks for, you know. Taking care of him when you found him. I’ll make sure he can’t get out again and get out of your hair. It’s gotta be fucking with your instincts, how I smell.”

“It’s always fucked with my instincts,” Derek says, like that somehow makes sense. “Stay.”

But Erica returned with Stiles’ car hours ago, so Derek can’t really keep him, and Trip is only a little sad to leave his new friends. He’s growing sleepy, it’s nearly nap time, and Stiles has had just about enough of Derek to last the rest of his life.

*

A few days pass, and Stiles lets his guard down for the first time in six months. He breathes, he relaxes, just a little. He lets himself rest. His father is there to keep him safe, and Stiles is there to keep Trip safe, and no one’s been arrested on charges of felony kidnapping.

He knows it can’t last, but for a few days, he lets himself pretend.

Trip is doing so much better. He’s still not speaking other than making animal sounds, but he’s smiling more, doesn’t seem to disassociate so much anymore. Maybe if they can stay here, Trip can heal and become the happy child he was before his Pack was destroyed.

And then, in the middle of the night, Stiles is woken by a sharp crack of thunder that sounds like gunfire.

For a moment, he lays there, watching lightning flash across the ceiling. He’s always loved storms, and this one is particularly violent. Rain is lashing his windows and the roof.

This time, however, the storm and the scent of ozone just reminds him of gunfire, wolfsbane. Screaming.

He hears Trip’s strangled whimper half a second before he’s throwing himself out of the bed and across the room to where the toddler is curled up in the corner, shaking and pale.

“Just a storm, Trip,” he says, trying to soothe him, but Trip flinches away from his touch. “Shh, shh. It’s okay.”

Ever since his Pack had been killed, Trip had been terrified of thunder, and Stiles doesn’t know how to help him. John is working and Stiles feels a crushing sense of helpless anxiety, and he knows if he doesn’t get control of that, he’ll be a rabbit before he knows what hit him.

“Please, Trip, please,” he begs. “Just let me help.”

Trip just curls up smaller, so Stiles reaches out and scoops him up, determined to rock him and sing to him and distract him from the storm.

It doesn’t go well. Trip reacts violently, lashing out with fingernails that are just the tiniest bit too sharp, raking them across Stiles’ face. The scent of blood and the pain makes Stiles’ heart beat faster, his breathing coming quick and light. He’s growing dizzy and he cannot freak out and shift right now. Trip needs him – even if he’s thrashing around and trying to get free, he still needs Stiles.

And then Trip throws his head back and howls, the longest, sharpest, loudest howl he’s ever managed. Stiles flinches, squeezing his eyes shut and letting him go. He can’t hold out against that wild, half feral howl – too much predator. He isn’t going to be able to keep control –

And then Stiles hears his phone ringing, the sound cutting through the storm, Trip’s howls, the anxiety. It’s a welcome distraction and Stiles lunges for it like it’s a life line.

Derek’s name flashes across it and he doesn’t even pause to wonder how the fuck Derek’s number got in his phone, he just answers.

“He’s freaking out because of the storm and I can’t calm him down,” he says, voice sharp and shaky. “He keeps howling, and I can’t – I need to run, I can’t stay, but I can’t leave him, he isn’t safe.”

“Breathe, Stiles. I’ll be right there.”

Stiles drops the phone, not even bothering to hang up, and Trip howls again, scratching at the door and snarling.

It’s too much, and knowing that Derek is on his way, Stiles closes his eyes and lets the terror wash over him, almost welcoming the mindless instinct of the rabbit when his mind goes dark.

*

He doesn’t come to in the back of a truck.

When Stiles opens his eyes, he’s sprawled over Derek’s lap, naked (of course), with the taste of his own blood in his mouth. Derek’s fingers are tangled up in his hair.

“You cuddled me,” Stiles says, hoarse, his muscles and bones aching too much to move. And maybe he doesn’t want to, secretly. He feels warm and safe and secure for the first time in so, so long.

“You were rather insistent on it,” Derek says quietly, pulling his fingers away. “You okay?”

“Trip…”

“Sleeping. It didn’t take me long to calm him. The storm’s over.”

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before forcing himself to sit up. He wraps a blanket around his shoulders and says, “Thank you.”

“I washed off as much of the blood as I could.” Derek is studying his face, and Stiles can feel the pull of the wounds Trip had left there. He turns away so Derek can’t see. It’s already healing and it’ll be gone in a few hours anyway.

“He wasn’t thinking,” he says. “He was just panicking.” He presses his hand to his torn cheek and says ruefully, “To be honest, it’s the first time he’s managed anything resembling a shift since his family died.”

“Stiles.” He finally looks back at Derek. “Will you tell me what happened?”

Stiles figures maybe he owes Derek that much.

“Trip’s Pack found me in Michigan a few months after — after I left Beacon Hills.”

Derek frowns. “You were supposed to be in college.”

Shrugging, Stiles says, “Studying criminology wasn’t really what I wanted to do anymore. I told you that… I was trying to find someone, anyone, who would teach me to use my Spark, to be like Deaton. An Emissary. Most Packs are pretty suspicious of strangers. But Trip’s wasn’t. Maybe they should have been.” He looks down at his fingers, nails bitten to the quick. “They took me in, their Emissary was teaching me everything she knew. They were a small Pack, just a little family. The Alpha and her husband, their four kids, their two kids’ mates, and eventually, Trip came along. And then one of the kids trusted the wrong guy, told him a bit too much, and the guy told his hunter buddies. They attacked in the middle of the night. It was all gunfire, and wolfsbane, and fire, and Trip saw it all. I tried to help, but Mountain Ash doesn’t do much against hunters, and all the healing herbs in the world wouldn’t heal wolves that are already dead. So I took Trip and I ran.”

He’s afraid to look at Derek, because it’s got to be a story that hits a little close to what happened to his own family. Hunters have probably been using tricks like that for decades. Instead, Stiles looks at Trip, curled up on the end of the couch, wrapped in a blanket and sleeping soundly.

“Which hunters?” Derek finally asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Did they follow you?”

“We ran until I thought it was safe. Found a job at a mechanic shop in Wisconsin, in a tiny town. It was supposed to be safe there. But then the fucking rabbit…” He shrugs. “A few days after that, some strangers came to town. I don’t think they saw me, but I recognized them, and I just… panicked. Shifted. Ran around like a mindless rabbit until I finally calmed down. It was them – the hunters. They’d found us. Witnesses that they broke the code. So I took Trip and we ran again, but. But how am I supposed to keep him safe when I freak out and become a fucking rabbit?” He shoots Derek a quick look and then says, “So I brought him here. To my dad. So I can figure something out.”

Derek tugs at Stiles’ blanket, tucking it more tightly around him, and then says, “What have you figured out so far?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Still working on that.”

“Stiles.” Derek is quiet until Stiles finally turns to look at him. “Let me help. You can’t do this on your own. He’s a werewolf — and I know a thing or two about what he’s going through. I can help.”

“He doesn’t talk,” Stiles confesses. “And he doesn’t shift. He’s afraid of loud noises. And sometimes he just checks out and isn’t aware of anything going on around him. I can’t reach him. And whenever he needs me the most, I turn into a rabbit. I don’t know what to do.”

“Let me help,” Derek says again. “I won’t take him from you. And you don’t have to stay forever. But give me some time to help him, to help you. If they find you, I can keep you safe.”

Stiles looks at him, shaking his head. “But why would you?” he asks, voice breaking. “You didn’t want me around before.”

Derek looks away, focusing on Trip. He shrugs and, after a moment, says quietly, “It was a long time ago. What kind of Alpha would I be if I turned someone away who needed me? And Trip needs me.”

But Stiles had needed him too.

He doesn’t say that, though. He doesn’t say anything at all. The truth is staring him right in the face. Derek is right – Trip needs more than Stiles, who can’t keep his head clear long enough to keep him safe. That’s why Stiles had run to his dad in the first place. Because ever since getting bitten by that rabbit, the likelihood of keeping Trip safe on his own was pretty much nonexistent.

Stiles doesn’t want to accept Derek’s help. If it was just him, he wouldn’t. But it’s Trip, and Stiles would do anything for Trip.

So he agrees before gathering up the shattered bits of his dignity and sweeping from the room with his blanket wrapped around him, going to his room to find some clothes.

*

“Derek’s a good Alpha.”

Stiles ignores Erica, but it’s hard. It’s a brilliantly sunny day, he’s sitting on Derek’s back porch again, arms wrapped tightly around himself, and all the Pack kids are playing in the wading pool again, shrieking with laughter. Derek is crawling in the grass with Trip, growling playfully, flashing his red eyes, and catching Trip whenever the kid growls and jumps at him. They roll in the grass, laughing, and Trip’s got pointed wolf ears and a tail.

Derek explained that his plan involved teaching Trip that werewolves weren’t scary, so maybe he’ll be able to shift again. It’s been helping, though gradually. Trip still doesn’t speak much, but he’s growing more playful, less afraid of Derek’s eyes or his teeth or his full shift form.

And Stiles’s role is to just sit here and watch Derek fix Trip in all the ways Stiles has never been able to.

Erica is sitting beside him today, and when he doesn’t answer, she nudges him and says, “He is, Stiles. Yeah, he was a shit show at first. But he’s learned. Grown up. We all have. Even you.”

Stiles gives in and looks at her. “You seem… happier,” he says. 

She rolls her eyes. “I look like shit,” she says. “But I’m okay with it. Having kids is exhausting. Well. You know.”

Stiles looks back at Trip. “He’s not actually mine,” he says.

“He is in all the ways that count.” She leans against his shoulder again. “Derek’s not trying to take him.”

“I know.” And Stiles does. The problem is, he’s starting to think that maybe it would be the best for Trip if Derek did. But he doesn’t say that. It sits like a heavy weight on his chest.

Erica’s quiet for a moment, and then she says, “Why’d you leave us, Stiles?” She sounds hesitant now, like she hadn’t meant to ask, and Stiles turns to look at her in shock.

“ _Leave_ you?” he echoes. “I didn’t leave you.”

She blinks at him. “You did. You left without a word. No contact, no explanation. Just… just woke up one day and you were gone. And Derek said you weren’t coming back.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, because he kicked me out.”

Erica stares at him for a long moment, and then her eyes narrow. “He didn’t,” she says. “He wouldn’t.” But she doesn’t sound like she believes it.

Stiles shrugs and looks away. “Said I didn’t belong here. I unbalanced the Pack, there wasn’t a place for me here anymore, it was for the best if I left. He just. Didn’t want me here.” He clears his throat, because his voice had trembled a little and that’s bullshit. It had been so long ago, it doesn’t matter anymore.

“Stiles,” she says, like she pities him, and Stiles shakes his head.

“It’s fine. He was right. I never belonged. I – I was a mess, and I irritated everybody, and I made everything harder than it had to be.”

“Bullshit,” she says, quiet. “You were always so important to the Pack. After you left, we almost fell apart. Scott was in a rage, Derek was a fucking mess. There was no one to hold us together, no one to tell us to cut our shit out and get on with it. Scott didn’t want to follow Derek anymore and Isaac wanted to go with him. Jackson and Lydia nearly walked away from all of us. Allison left. Malia and I were the only ones willing to stand by Derek, and it took all the strength I’ve got to keep her from running after you. If I’d known you hadn’t left on your own, I would have let her track you down and drag you back here. How the fuck could you believe we didn’t need you?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Derek didn’t need me,” he says. “And that’s all that mattered.”

Erica growls. “He was full of shit,” she says. “He needed you more than any of us. He was just so fucked up, he probably thought you were better off without his special brand of bullshit. And hell, maybe he was right if he was that stupid. But Stiles, you could stay now. We still need you now. There’s always been a place here for you, always. Even after Derek got his shit together and started being a real Alpha again, there was a place here for you. You can stay. This is your home.”

Stiles shoots a quick look at Derek, startled to find him watching them. Derek looks away quickly, probably pretending he couldn’t hear every word they were saying, but Stiles sees his cheeks flush.

“I don’t have a home anymore,” he says, and beside him, Erica just sighs.

*

“So, the thing is, I did some searching today,” John says, cutting up some spaghetti noodles for Trip.

Stiles is instantly suspicious. “Into what?”

“The legal aspects of felony kidnapping,” John says, lifting his eyebrows. “Since you took a kid.”

Wincing, Stiles says, “For his own good! I saved him!”

“Yeah. But in the eyes of the law, it’s a bit of a tricky situation,” John tells him, sliding the plate of noodles in front of Trip. “But here’s the thing. According to all my sources, there is no official registration for the kid on file.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, in the eyes of the law, Terence James Reilly, born October 12, 2016, doesn’t exist. Which means, officially, you couldn’t have kidnapped him.”

Stiles’ eyes widen. “He was born at home,” he says. “They were a pretty reclusive family. They never registered him?”

“No. Which isn’t such a big deal. I’m sure it happens with werewolves sometimes. But the thing is, it makes it incredibly easier to fudge a bit of paperwork to make him yours.”

Sitting in his own chair now, John shoves a huge mouthful of spaghetti into his mouth and chews, giving Stiles a few moments to process.

Finally, he says, “Dad, that’s breaking the law.”

“Werewolves are a gray area,” John says with a shrug. “You know that. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to fudge some paperwork to make a tricky supernatural situation disappear in the eyes of the law. And I’m not about to let the little guy go into foster care, and you to prison. I believe in right and wrong, son, and sometimes the law just doesn’t apply.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then says, “Let me think about it, okay?”

He looks at Trip, happily sucking noodles into his mouth, and wonders if maybe this little domestic scene with dinner time around the Stilinski table with Trip and his father would be something he gets to keep.

*

It takes about a week of Derek’s careful lessons before Trip manages, quite by accident, to giggle himself into a full shift.

He’s an adorable wolf – all tawny fluff and a stubby snout, pointed ears and wide brown eyes, and no idea how to navigate the world on four legs. He doesn’t panic though, just tips over and wiggles, kicking his four legs as he tries to get up again. His mouth opens on a wolfy grin, tongue lolling out, and he yips, managing to get back to his feet. It’s all the other kids need to drop into wolf form as well, and then the whole mess of them are tumbling and chasing each other around the house. 

Derek’s smiling, a small, fond, proud little grin, as he saunters over to the back step and drops down beside Stiles, stretching his legs out.

Stiles leans back on his elbows and says, “I’ve never seen him as relaxed as he is with you. Not since the hunters.”

Derek shrugs, his smile turning a little shy. “It’s an Alpha thing, like I said before. That’s part of the role of Alpha. Safety. Security. Trust.”

“But you’re not his Alpha,” Stiles points out. “Right?”

“I’m not. I could be, though. But there needs to be a certain degree of consent. I won’t take him, Stiles. I promise.”

“But would you? If I consented? And he consented?”

Derek turns to look at him, thoughtful. “There would be a place here for him, yes,” he says. “And for you. Always.”

His mouth twists up bitterly, and Stiles turns away. “That’s not what you said before.”

“I was wrong.”

Stiles closes his eyes, breathes for a moment. “You sounded pretty sure at the time.”

“I…” Derek trails off, thinking for a moment, and then touching Stiles’ shoulder, making Stiles turn to look at him. His eyes are still so stupid pretty, and wide with sincerity. Six years ago, he’d never have allowed himself to look that soft, that vulnerable. “It wasn’t safe for you,” Derek says. “I wasn’t safe for you. An Alpha is supposed to keep his Pack safe, and I couldn’t keep anybody safe, especially you.”

“So you sent me away?” Stiles scoffs, laughing a little bitterly. “That makes no sense.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Derek confesses. “You got hurt the week before, and I couldn’t stop it. There had been so much blood. And it had happened before. You kept almost dying and it was my fault – I wasn’t strong enough to protect you, you wouldn’t take the Bite, you didn’t heal like the betas did. I was afraid that one day, I wouldn’t get there fast enough. And you were always meant for more than Beacon Hills.”

“I never needed you to keep me safe,” Stiles snaps. “I wasn’t completely helpless. I had a Spark, I was Pack, I could have helped you!”

“Maybe,” Derek says quietly. “But I couldn’t take that risk. It was… you were a distraction.”

“How?”

Derek doesn’t answer for a long moment, and Stiles almost gives up on hoping for one. Then Derek says, “Would you give up Trip, to keep him safe? Even if it meant you would never see him again and it broke your heart, would you do it?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, though it breaks his heart to say it. “But that’s different. I wasn’t your child.”

Derek finally turns to look at him, shrugging helplessly. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love you.”

For a moment, Stiles just stares at him, mouth hanging open unattractively. He doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know what to say, all he feels is a blank, echoing nothingness and he thinks maybe he just doesn’t have a response to that.

Or maybe Derek doesn’t deserve one.

His voice, when he finally finds it, starts out small, stunned and broken, but quickly gains volume. “I lost everyone,” he says. “My friends, my family, my home. Because you were afraid I was too weak to keep it. And then I found another home, another family, and I lost them too. And now I come back here because I have literally nowhere else to go, and you think it makes fucking sense to tell me that all of this happened – that you sent me away – because you _loved_ me?”

“Stiles —”

“No,” Stiles snarls, getting to his feet. “No, you don’t get to do this. Maybe you have your perfect home, and your perfect Pack, and you’re running some fucked up idyllic dayhome for your Pack’s perfect children, and maybe you’re well-adjusted and happy and fucking content, and maybe you fucking deserve that after all the shit you went through, but you don’t get to do this to me. You don’t get to pretend that you sending me away was out of love. That’s not what love is. That was fear. Because I can fucking promise you, Derek, that if you had loved me, you never would have taken everything away from me.”

Derek looks panicked now, getting to his feet and reaching out like he wants to touch Stiles, but not quite having the guts to do it. “I didn’t say it was fair,” he says. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was a mess. It felt like a weakness – I was so scared that something would happen to you, and all I could think was that the worst possible thing for you would be to stay here, and to be with me, because everyone who – anyone who chose to – Stiles, everyone who I ever loved ended up dead. I couldn’t let that happen to you.”

“That wasn’t your choice to make,” Stiles snaps.

“I know.”

“And it isn’t the same thing as me leaving Trip somewhere to keep him safe. If I did that, I would be hurting myself to save him. You hurt me to save yourself.”

“I know.”

Stiles feels stupidly close to tears, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Derek tries to take his hand and Stiles jerks away. “Don’t touch me. You don’t get to touch me. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t know what you want from me, telling me this bullshit after all these years, but you don’t get to have it.”

“I don’t want anything from you, Stiles,” Derek says. “I just want to keep you safe. And Trip. I want to teach you to control your shift so that you aren’t afraid of it anymore. I want to teach Trip that being a werewolf means more than death and hunters and fear. I want you to come home.”

“I don’t trust you,” Stiles tells him, and he feels a petty thrill when Derek flinches. “I used to, but I don’t anymore, and I don’t think I ever will again.”

“I’m sorry.” Derek sounds like he means it and Stiles wants to cry.

He doesn’t. He just shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, just as Trip, human again and beaming, dashes around the side of the house, chased by a pack of tiny werewolves. 

He launches himself at Stiles shouting, “Bunny!” and then making a series of squeaky growls like he thinks those are the noises rabbits make. He wraps his arms around Stiles’ neck and smiles at him with pointed wolf teeth, and Stiles cuddles him close.

“C’mon,” he says, walking away from Derek and his pack of wolves. “Time to go.”

*

Stiles doesn’t bring Trip to Derek’s the next day. They stay home, watching The Fox and the Hound and eating popcorn while Stiles tries to figure out what to do next. They can’t stay here forever, but he’s having trouble figuring out the best path forward.

All he knows is that for him, Derek isn’t it. But maybe he is for Trip.

It hurts too much to think about, but Stiles is doing his best to be objective here.

The movie is just about over when the front door flies open and Scott stands there, hands on his hips, face splotchy with rage.

“I thought you left me!” he shouts.

Stiles is about to snap at him for scaring Trip when Trip throws up both hands in victory and launches off the couch and at Scott, wrapping his arms around his knees and howling. 

Apparently they know each other.

Scott doesn’t even stop glaring as he bends down to scoop Trip up. 

And Stiles isn’t quite sure what to do here.

“I did leave you,” he says. “I left everyone. But it was a long time ago. How have you been?”

Scott doesn’t take the subject change Stiles was aiming for. “I thought it was your choice,” he hisses, pointing one finger at Stiles. “Not that Derek made you go!”

“It was my choice,” Stiles argues. “I didn’t have to listen to him. But I—”

Scott scoffs. “C’mon,” he says. “We both know you’d do anything he told you to.”

“Not true. From what I remember, I’d usually go out of my way to piss him off.”

Scott drops his accusing finger and his shoulders slump. “Yeah,” he says. “But we also both know that if he was as much of a dick to you as Erica said he was, you’d have run away because you were in love with him and weren’t very good at handling rejection.”

“I didn’t run,” Stiles says, slumping back onto the couch, arms crossed at his chest. He glares at the window. “I drove. Didn’t even speed. And you told me to go. And to never talk to you again.”

Scott drops to the couch beside him, Trip wiggling down between them, looking pleased as punch. 

“Yeah,” Scott says, cheeks flushing even more. “Because you told me you didn’t want to be Pack anymore.”

Stiles doesn’t want to talk about that, so he goes quiet for a long moment, finally saying, “You have kids.”

Scott brightens. “Yeah! So do you! Trip’s awesome!”

“I didn’t know you’d met him,” Stiles says, shooting Scott a quick look.

“Derek lets me come over sometimes, when you’re not there.” Scowling, Scott adds, “He said I wasn’t supposed to bother you, you were stressed out and also a wererabbit? And he worried that confrontation would make you lose control? What the fuck, since when are wererabbits a thing and since when are you one of them and what sort of super powers come with being one?”

It’s oddly considerate of Derek, and Stiles doesn’t want to fucking think about him. So he focuses on the rabbit thing and says, “Two months, petting zoo mishap. I’m faster? And I heal faster too. And hearing, sometimes, but I get distracted and twitchy so it’s not all that reliable. I have to ignore it most of the time or I’ll spend all day hopping around in rabbit form, panicking over sirens or the neighbour’s TV or whatever else.”

“Awesome,” Scott says, and Stiles lets himself smile, a little. It’s nice, thinking that someone actually thinks being a wererabbit isn’t awful. 

Because it’s pretty shitty.

But it’s also nice being with Scott. He expects it to be awkward between them, and it is at first, but they’d known each other too well for too long for that to last, and before Stiles knows it, Scott is happily filling him in on the last six years while they both sit on the floor with Trip and help him build the most epic castle out of blocks that Scott can imagine.

It soothes something inside that Stiles hadn’t even realized was broken.

*

Scott stays for dinner, chasing a giggling Trip around the living room while Stiles cooks, tiring the toddler out so that he falls asleep over his plate of mushy carrots and peas. Rather than tuck him into bed, Stiles carries him to the couch and, after the dishes are done, he and Scott put on a Star Wars movie. Stiles is reluctant to let Scott leave, when he’s only just gotten him back.

They’re both dozing when Stiles’ phone rings, and Stiles sees it’s his dad. He answers, slipping from the room so he doesn’t disturb Scott and Trip.

It’s dark outside, and he rubs his eyes sleepily, standing at the front door and absently staring out into the quiet street.

“Hey, Dad,” he says, voice low. “What’s up? When are you coming home?”

“Not for a while,” John says. “How’s the kid?”

“Good. Sleeping. Scott’s here.”

“Is he? Good. Don’t let him leave. There’s something I need to look into, and I need to know you’re safe at home while I do it. Maybe you should call Derek.”

“I’m not calling Derek. What’s going on?”

John sighs. “My deputy got a call about a suspicious vehicle that’s been seen in town, asking around about a 1998 Sunfire and a blonde haired kid. Calling themselves the FBI, saying it’s a child abduction case.”

Stiles’ breath catches and he glances at the beat up Sunfire parked in his dad’s driveway. “FBI?” he says faintly.

“If the FBI were in my jurisdiction, I’d know about it. Call Derek, let me sort this out. Stay safe.”

His dad hangs up and it takes Stiles a long moment to remember how to breathe.

He knew coming home was a risk. He knew the hunters weren’t going to let them go, not when they were witnesses to the slaughter of an entire Pack for no reason at all. Not when Stiles could probably turn them in to law enforcement, or even the other hunters, for breaking the Code as wholly as they had.

But Stiles hadn’t had anywhere to go. He’d been bitten by a wererabbit, he couldn’t protect Trip on his own, and he’d been afraid.

And now, he’s led those hunters right to Beacon Hills, to his dad and to Derek’s Pack, which had finally found a little bit of happiness and security.

Headlights cut through the darkness as a dark SUV turns onto his street, and Stile watches as they pull over and park a few houses down, killing the engine. No one gets out of the vehicle.

He’s led them right to his father’s home.

There is no time for anxiety or panic, no time for rabbiting out, and Stiles doesn’t even have to fight the urge. He knows what he has to do and he’s filled with a grim sense of purpose as he goes back into the living room.

“Scott, hey,” he says, voice only slightly uneven. He carefully takes the blanket off of Trip as Scott jerks awake with a sleepy grin.

“Aww, man,” he says. “I always miss the bit with the Ewoks.”

“I need you to do me a favour, okay?” Stiles says, carefully folding and rolling the blanket up. Trip keeps sleeping soundly.

“Sure.”

“I’ve got to run to the sheriff station to see my dad,” Stiles tells him, and Scott frowns.

“It’s like midnight.”

“Won’t take long. I’ll be back. Can you watch Trip for me?”

“Sure I can, but –”

Stiles grabs his wallet, his phone charger, his backpack, his jacket, and then hesitates over Trip’s sleeping form. “Okay,” he says, forcing a smile for Scott. “Thanks. I— I missed you. I’m glad… I’m glad you came over.”

He presses a kiss to Trip’s cheek and whispers, “Be good, okay?”

And he’s blinking back tears as he walks out the front door, cradling Trip’s rolled up blanket like a toddler.

“Stiles, wait,” Scott says, but Stiles just closes the door and walks away.

He gets into his Sunfire, making a show of buckling the blanket in the backseat, shoving his backpack in the trunk, and getting into the car. Then, he backs out of the driveway, drives right by the dark SUV, and heads towards the highway.

“Okay,” he says softly to himself, as the SUV pulls out behind him, still dark. Then he hits the highway and stomps on the gas, leaving Beacon Hills behind.

 

*

Scott calls four times before Stiles answers.

He’s driving through a winding section of road, the sun is just starting to lighten the sky behind him, and the SUV is hanging back. It’s the first time there haven’t been other cars on the road with them since he left Beacon Hills.

“Hey, Scotty,” Stiles says, glancing in his rearview. “I need you to do me a favour.”

“Where are you?” Scott asks. He’s panicking, Stiles can hear it in his voice. “I called the station and your dad flipped out.”

Stiles has ignored six calls from his dad and three from Derek.

“I need you to take Trip to Derek. Tell him – shit.” The SUV behind him starts picking up speed as Stiles navigates around a rocky hill, temporarily losing sight of them.

“Stiles? I’ll come get you, where are you? Let me help you.”

The SUV is much closer when it comes around the bend and it’s gaining speed. Stiles stomps on the gas.

“Tell him my dad can make it official for him, and that he was right. Sometimes the only thing you can do to keep someone safe is to leave them behind. Tell my dad I’m sorry, and –”

“— Stiles!”

“And tell Derek too. And Trip. Oh god. I just – I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to lead them here and I’m going to fix it. I promise.”

“Please, Stiles, just listen to me.”

The SUV clips his back bumper, making the car fishtail a little, and Stiles yelps, dropping the phone and trying to stay in control. He can hear Scott’s voice, growing progressively higher-pitched, but he can’t risk taking his hands off the wheel to hang up.

He takes another switchback too sharply, tires spinning and car skidding before gaining traction again. The SUV, with four wheel drive, doesn’t have that problem and surges forward, hitting him again with more force.

There’s a split second when Stiles thinks it’ll be okay. His car shudders but stays in contact with the road. But the SUV slams him again and sends the little car speeding forward, straight towards the thick trunk of a tree along the edge of the road. 

He doesn’t mean to scream – he knows Scott can hear him. But it’s much scarier than he thought it would be, barrelling straight towards a tree, and he can’t help it. He screams as he jerks the wheel in a desperate attempt to avoid it, and ends up turning sharply, sliding, and sending the car tumbling right over the edge of the cliff and down the rocky embankment.

It rolls, he doesn’t even know how many times, and each impact is a jarring force, a blast of broken glass, and pain tearing through him. It seems to go in slow motion but happen all too quickly, and then the car lands on its roof with a sharp crash, finally coming to rest.

For Stiles, everything feels like it is still spinning. He can taste his own blood but can’t feel the pain, though nothing in his body feels like it’s working quite right. He’s suspended upside down and the warm rush of blood his making his face, his hands, his mouth sticky and wet.

He’s still screaming.

For a hazy, hysterical moment, he considers giving in and letting his rabbit form take over, but the idea of putting his body through that pain is too awful to consider. As it is, his shock keeps him human, and it’s probably for the best. He’s pretty sure he’d be torn apart if he shifted now, because his body is barely holding itself together as it is.

There’s a crunch of footsteps on the ground outside the car, and then a high pitched squeal that makes Stiles feel like his head is being drilled into. It’s a sharp spike of pain and he can’t even scream anymore, flinching away from the hunter and his ultrasonic emitter, the one only animals should be able to hear.

“He’s reacting,” the hunter calls, yanking the door open. “He’s a were! I thought he was supposed to be human.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Another hunter says. “Just means we can kill him guilt-free.”

And then they unlatch his seatbelt and Stiles falls, smashing his head on the crunched roof of the car. His broken bones grind against each other, his torn flesh tears even more, and suddenly, he can feel all of it.

He loses consciousness as they grab him by the shirt and jerk him out of the car.

*

Stiles wakes up bound with damp ropes that have probably been soaked in wolfsbane. Jokes on these hunters, wererabbits are immune to wolfsbane. They’d need bindweed or morning glory to affect a wererabbit.

The problem is, wererabbits aren’t specifically that strong. They’re a little stronger than humans, sure, but most of their advantages are in speed. And maybe sexual prowess. Stiles hasn’t tested that out yet.

He’s propped up against a metal fence, hands bound with the ropes. There’s probably some electric current set up to run through the fence at his back, because hunters aren’t the most creative, and Stiles is pretty sure that electricity is enough to fuck him up.

The good news is that his healing ability has kicked in enough to start knitting his bones and skin back together. It’s almost as painful as breaking his bones in the first place. 

Before he can test out his legs to see if maybe he’ll be able to stand, a hand twists up in his hair and jerks his head back. It’s a hunter – the ugly one with the bent nose, crouching in front of Stiles.

“Where’s the kid?” Bent Nose spits, and Stiles wrinkles his nose. He feels the dried blood on his face cracking with the motion.

“Pretty sure he died in the crash,” Stiles croaks, licking his dried lips.

The hunter growls and slams his head back into the fence, making the room spin. Apparently advanced healing doesn’t do much for severe concussions. Stiles can’t quite suppress a pained groan as his head slumps forward, chin landing on his chest.

“We’d have found whatever was left of it if there was anything left to find,” the hunter says, getting to his feet. “Tell us where he is and we’ll end this quick.”

“I never do anything the easy way,” Stiles says, all false bravado. He’s starting to shake, bone fragments forcing themselves back together sluggishly. He doesn’t have a chance to brace himself before a booted foot slams into his already broken ribs, recracking the healing fractures.

He can’t scream. There’s blood bubbling in his throat, his breath is whistling in his chest, and he’s pretty sure a lung has been punctured. Before he can manage to draw another breath, there’s a crack of ozone and the fence at his back goes live, electricity racing through him, and Stiles tears open his healing wounds when he arches back.

His mouth twists open but he still can’t scream, and that somehow makes it worse.

*

He’s in and out of consciousness. Each time he blinks, it tends to take longer and longer for his eyes to open again. They’re swelling from the crash, the electricity inhibiting his healing, and Stiles wonders why he bothers opening them at all.

Finally, the hunters give up, disgusted at him but also probably aware of the fact that if they kill him, their torturous attempts to get him to give up Trip will fail. So they leave him alone in the dark, and Stiles lets his eyes close.

He drifts between hazy nightmares and softer memories, and his body slowly starts healing. It’s agony, but he’s too exhausted, too weak, to stay awake through it, which is a blessing. His shift seems very distant, out of reach, his body too broken to change.

He thinks of Trip, wondering if Derek has him yet, if Derek is keeping him safe, and knows that Derek is. He thinks of his dad and hope’s he’s okay. He thinks of the whole Pack and hopes they’re staying home and staying safe, because none of this is worth it if they reveal themselves to the hunters and destroy the fragile bit of home and safety they’d managed to build.

He thinks of Derek’s sweet house in the woods, of the lush grass out back and the wading pool, the pack of puppies and how instantly Trip had fit in there, laughing and playing like any normal kid. And then he thinks of Derek, fully shifted and playfully nipping at Trip’s fingers until Trip wasn’t afraid anymore.

He thinks of how proud Derek was, how excited, when Trip let his teeth grow sharp, his ears pointed, for the first time. How hard he laughed when Trip giggled himself into a full shift.

He remembers Derek saying, “It only hurts when you’re afraid of it, that’s all he’s got to know. That’s the basis of control. When you aren’t scared, when you accept it as part of you, it’s like wrapping yourself in a warm blanket. It’s a comfort, almost. You and your shift are on the same side. I can teach you, if you want.”

But Stiles hadn’t been ready to learn, and then hadn’t had any time.

And what good is a rabbit form anyway? He can’t fight his way out of here.

*

He wakes up when he’s healed enough and they come back, and this time, before they even start to rebreak his bones, he starts to cry, just a little.

“Just leave him,” he says, ignoring his tears and glaring up at them. “He’s just a kid. He doesn’t know anything. He can’t hurt you. He’s a baby.”

“He’s an animal,” Bent Nose says. “And he needs to be put down. Same as you.”

The electricity hits him so hard, he half worries he’ll break his back when he jerks violently. He doesn’t, though, and the hunters laugh, watching him. When they turn down the current enough to ask him about Trip, he spits at them and screams as they turn up the current again.

“You can’t fight this,” Bent Nose says, and Stiles knows he can’t.

“He hasn’t wolfed out,” the other hunter says, watching him. “Not even once.”

Because he can’t. He’s not a goddamned werewolf. If he was, he’d tear them apart. Well. After he dealt with the wolfsbane ropes. Which aren’t affecting him. Because he’s not a werewolf.

The current cuts off and Stiles slumps against the fence, panting, each breath coming out in a faint whine. He supposes he ought to be grateful he’s not a wolf – at least he’s saved that little bit of pain from the wolfsbane. Stiles isn’t sure he can handle any more pain.

Maybe if he was some other sort of were, he could fight back. A tiger or an elephant or something.

All rabbits can do is run.

Stiles lets his head fall to the side, staring blankly at the hunters, barely aware of their rising frustration, of their repeated questions. His eyes fix on the door, opened just a crack, and the room beyond, and he thinks about how, if he could, he’d just take off. Run for it and not look back.

And then he realizes, if he was a rabbit, he probably could.

Stiles rolls his head back to look at the hunters, who are going through their collection of knives now, apparently set to escalate the torture.

And he thinks about what Derek said, about the shift not being something to be afraid of. About welcoming it, about pulling it over himself like a comforting blanket. He thinks about Trip, learning not to be afraid of his own shift, and he closes his eyes, searching inside for the vibrating, anxious energy of the rabbit.

It’s all too easy to call up the panic, but this time, he doesn’t fight it. He breathes it in and feels his body ripple with it, his ears and his teeth shifting before the rest of his body falls into it.

It hurts – he’s got too many broken parts for it not to hurt. But it’s nothing like the terror and pain it usually brings.

And then the rabbit instincts overtake anything human as he shrinks down, wet ropes falling around him.

“It’s a fucking rabbit,” Bent Nose says, and then Stiles bolts for the door.

They have no hope of catching him.

*

The world is washed out in a tide of panic. He can smell threats on all sides, and the adrenaline is enough to send him scrambling blindly through the building until he bursts into fresh air. He keeps running – each step sends bones grinding against one another and he’s limping, staggering almost, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t feel anything beyond that animalistic panic.

He runs until it feels like his heart is going to burst from beating so hard, until he’s lost himself in the forest, until his cracked ribs feel like they are constricting around his broken lungs. And then he finds a narrow, dark place and drags himself to safety, curling up and shaking with fear and pain.  
Now that he isn’t running, the adrenaline fades and he feels each broken part, each piece slowly mending. It’s all he can do to curl up and close his eyes and breathe, his long ears twitching with each sound.

It doesn’t take long before he hears something creeping through the underbrush, slow and careful and coming this way.

His body is still broken and battered, but the instinct to run is too strong. Stiles bolts.

He throws himself into the brambles and undergrowth, staggering gracelessly and crashing through nettles and thistles, twisting as best he can with broken bones and torn up flesh. He tries his best to run, but whatever energy reserves he’d relied on to get him this far are long, long gone.

He’s tackled to the soft forest floor, pinned by a predator, and his heart is going to pound its way right out of his chest. Flight instinct gives way to fight and he twists, kicking and clawing and snapping his sharp rabbit teeth, but he’s held down by a fucking wolf and he hasn’t got a chance of surviving this.

Except the wolf is crooning softly, almost soothingly, holding him gently, tongue licking over the worst wounds. And Stiles can’t get free. So he goes boneless, playing dead, and breathing in deeply around his broken ribs.

Instead of the scent of predator, he breathes in home and safety and Pack and when he breathes out, the rabbit terror breathes out with him and then it’s gone.

It’s agony, shifting back to human, but Stiles can’t help it. He’s only got the barest hint of control over his shift at the best of times. So his broken bones twist and he arches back and screams as his flesh tears all over again, and then he’s a bruised, broken, sweaty human again, and above him, Derek shifts too.

“Shh, Stiles, I’ve got you, shh,” he says.

Stiles looks up at him, wide eyed and wild and says, “I did what you said. I wasn’t afraid.”

Derek pushes his sweaty hair back off his forehead and says, “You’re a mess. You’re bleeding. Hold still.”

“I shifted,” Stiles says, feverish. “On purpose. To get away.”

Derek lifts himself up off Stiles a little bit, running his hands over his chest, feeling for wounds, and Stiles flinches and hisses when Derek’s hand brushes against his ribs. Each breath is whistling in his chest and Stiles is pretty sure he punctured a lung again.

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek says, and his hands are wet with Stiles’ blood.

Stiles remembers Derek telling him that it was why he’d sent Stiles away in the first place. He was too fragile, he bled too much, and Derek couldn’t handle it. And now Stiles has led the hunters right to him.

He grabs Derek’s wrist. “You have to run,” he begs. “Derek, the hunters, they’ll find you. Run, I’ll distract them, keep Trip safe, and Scott, and all those kids.”

“You – we are going to talk about how stupid everything you just said is later,” Derek tells him. “When you’re not bleeding out. Brace yourself.”

It’s all the warning Stiles gets before Derek is lifting him up, bridal style, and the pain is too much. Stiles passes out with a strangled cry of pain, and it’s actually a bit of a relief.

*

For a few moments after Stiles is jolted awake, he’s too exhausted and confused to feel much pain. The ache in his bones isn’t quiet for long and he swallows back a moan, turning his head when he feels movement beside him.

Trip is stretched out beside him, looking solemn and somehow filled with judgement. He must have woken Stiles when he crawled up onto the bed.

“Sorry, kid,” Stiles says, voice little more than a croak, and Trip reaches out to touch his face, frowning at him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“He missed you.”

Stiles jerks, startled, and turns to see Derek sitting in a chair by the window, looking grim. Wincing at the movement, Stiles falls back on his pillow and lets Trip nestle in beside him.

“Missed him too,” he says, and Derek finally takes pity on him and brings him a cup of water with a straw. Stiles drinks, soothing his throat, and then closes his eyes. “Everything hurts.”

“Melissa had to rebreak a lot of bones. The electric current interrupted the healing process and they started fusing back together wrong.”

“Ah.” Stiles considers that for a moment. “Glad I slept through it.” He’s in his bedroom at least, and not at the hospital, though it’s a bit odd that Derek’s there, and that he doesn’t seem inclined to leave. “Where’s my dad?” Stiles asks.

“At the station.”

“And… and the hunters?”

“Under arrest.”

Stiles opens his eyes and looks at Derek, startled. He’d assumed that Derek had burst into the building in a rage and tore them all apart, and it would have been Stiles’ fault, of course. The wrath of the entire hunter community would have come down hard on Derek and his Pack, and the peace and quiet they’d fought so hard for would have been destroyed.

But Derek hadn’t done it.

Perhaps reading the disbelief in his eyes, Derek crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Chris and your father took care of them while I followed your trail through the woods. They’ve been charged with the murder of Trip’s family, and with… everything they did to you.”

Stiles flinches at the memory. “It was bad,” he says, voice small. He clears his throat. “Really bad. But I wasn’t going to tell them where Trip was. They could do whatever they wanted to me, I wasn’t going to—“

“Did it not occur to you,” Derek says coldly, standing up. “That instead of sacrificing yourself to keep the kid safe, and letting a bunch of insane hunters literally break your body and keep you from healing, that you could have come to me and I could have dealt with it?”

Stiles stares at him. “I couldn’t do that,” he says. “It was my problem. I couldn’t let my problem affect you and your Pack.”

“You are my Pack,” Derek snarls. Trip sits up and glares at him in response, eyes glowing gold.

Startled, Stiles says, “No I’m not. I haven’t been, not in years. You sent me away.”

“You’ll always be my Pack. You’ll always—”

“You’re not my Alpha,” Stiles says logically. 

“That doesn’t mean that you aren’t — that you don’t matter to me. You don’t have to accept me as your Alpha for me to still have the instinct to protect you, to keep you safe,” Derek snaps. “When we realized what you had done… That you left Trip and went on some suicidal mission, when we found the car, and there was so much blood…” Derek shakes his head, looking haunted. “Stiles. I just. I can’t do that again. I sent you away because I couldn’t handle you getting hurt again. Please, please don’t make me follow another trail of your blood. You were –” He looks away. “You were so small and bloody and broken and you kept running from me and I just wanted to keep you safe but how am I supposed to keep you safe if you won’t _let_ me?”

Stiles stares at him, not used to that many words from him, not used to Derek looking that off-balanced and vulnerable. “You did save me,” he says, trying to soothe him. “You found me. You brought me home.”

Derek laughs sharply. “You ran from me.”

“Dude,” Stiles says, stroking Trip’s hair and watching Derek carefully. “I was a rabbit. I’d run from my own shadow. I don’t remember much of it, I never do, but what I do know is that when you caught me, you didn’t smell like a predator. You smelled like home. And that’s what brought me back.”

Derek reaches out, tentative, and slides his fingers over Stiles’ wrist, taking some of the pain. Breathing out and relaxing into the bed, Stiles lets his eyes close, a small smile flickering over his mouth.

“Took you long enough,” he mumbles, taking a deep breath for the first time since he woke.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to find you,” Derek says, soft. “And that you stayed away for so long.”

Stiles opens his eyes, looking up at him, and then turns his hand under Derek’s, until their fingers are laced together. “Sorry I let you push me away.”

Derek holds his hand carefully. “Stay,” he says.

“For a while,” Stiles allows, drifting off to sleep.

*

“Daddy,” Trip says, both hands wrapped around Stiles’ knees as he beams up at him, teeth just a little too sharp.

Stiles tugs at Trip’s hair and says, “Kid?”

Trip’s grin gets even sharper, eyes flashing. “Run, Daddy,” he says.

Stiles laughs, looking over his shoulder at Derek, who’s helping Riley tighten her skate. The other kids are already out on the pond, but Trip doesn’t have the patience for skating. He’s still too infatuated with shifting, with running through the snow in wolf form, hunting rabbits.

Derek looks up and smiles and says, “You go this. Just remember. Breathe.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and lets the shift rush over him, just like Derek taught him. It doesn’t hurt and it doesn’t bring a rush of terror with it. He’s surrounded by the sharp scent of snow and ice, the trees, the fresh air, and surrounded by Pack. There’s nothing to be afraid of here as he wiggles out of his parka, hopping in the snow tentatively. He doesn’t sink into it though, so he takes a few more hops, twitching his nose in triumph.

Behind him, Trip drops into wolf form with a gleeful howl, and still, Stiles doesn’t panic. Even as the little wolf leaps through the snow after him and Stiles starts to run, he isn’t afraid. His heart is beating and his lungs are sucking in clean, cold air, and he weaves an impressive trail through the snow and the trees, letting Trip catch up a time or two before speeding away and leaving him behind. 

He runs until he starts to tire, and then weaves around Trip, ducking just out of reach of his paws and heading straight for Derek, who is watching with a fond grin on his lips.

Stiles gives it everything he’s got, dashing straight at Derek with Trip gaining on him. Just before the little wolf can tackle him, Stiles jumps and Derek catches him, laughing.

Stiles doesn’t even give Derek enough time to catch his balance before he’s shifting, knocking Derek back down into the snow and landing, naked, sprawled on his chest.

“You’re going to freeze,” Derek says, still laughing, tucking his coat around Stiles, who is beaming down at him with triumph.

“You’ll keep me warm,” Stiles says easily, as Trip gives up the hunt and wanders off to find something more interesting to chase.

“Yeah,” Derek says fondly, mittened hands pressing to Stiles’ flushed cheeks. Before Stiles can react or confess that maybe it’s a little too cold to be naked in the snow, Derek leans up and presses a sweet, snowy kiss to his lips. “Stay,” he says, mittens still on Stiles’ cheeks.

Stiles beams down at him. “Forever,” he agrees, because he’s finally, finally home.


End file.
